Heavenly Deluge
by Thyme In Her Eyes
Summary: Centering on Clytemnestra and her bitter, vengeful thoughts as Agamemnon returns after the Trojan War, unknowingly to meet with his own death...


Heavenly Deluge by CrimsonFuchsia.  
  
A/N: This is a 'fic about Clytemnestra of Sparta and her bitter, vengeful thoughts and feelings as her husband Agamemnon is returning after the Trojan War. I always felt sorry for Clytemnestra (even though I also feel sorry for Cassandra.damn that Agamemnon was a bastard.) so I wanted to try and portray her thoughts on things for a change. On a more technical note, I've heard in some versions of the myth that Clytemnestra had a first husband and child, both being murdered by Agamemnon for him to claim Clytemnestra and share her throne. I'm not sure about this, so I decided not to mention it; I hope it doesn't ruin the tale for anyone. Many thanks to everyone that reviewed 'Understanding Beauty'; it's great to know some people out there enjoy my writing!  
  
Heavenly Deluge  
  
Ten years. After so much time passing by like distant ships sailing peacefully it seems strange to know that the war is finally over. So, Paris is dead, like so many others, Menelaus has reclaimed my fickle half-sister Helen - whose love for Paris was conveniently the work of Aphrodite's power - and all is well. As well as the world can be after being shook by war's iron fist for ten years. It seems unnatural to remember any other time. But it is truly over now after so many years and the old balance expects to be restored and all will be at peace. It is an agreeable situation, I suppose, though somewhere between the grief and bitterness I lost the ability to care, like a language unspoken for so long becomes archaic. I care not about that either. If it makes me wicked, then so be it. I am what my life moulded; nothing more, nothing less. Just as peace is restored at the cost of lives, it has been restored by the cost of my Iphigenia, my only love on this earth and the loss of my soul. But now all is well, or so they say.  
  
And he will return.  
  
Agamemnon; the royal pig. My husband and deepest hate. Did he truly think that after ten years I would have forgotten? That after not knowing if he lived or died every day for ten years would give me new appreciation for him? That all these ten years I pined for him? That I would welcome him with open arms and a cold, long-empty bed? He is a fool. A fool to think that ten years would be ample time for me to forgive and forget, that my anger would be long rotted away and my grief healed by so much time. Ten years is nothing. Nothing. I can wait. I can bide my time; it will make my revenge that much sweeter, like honey on my thin lips. Had he been gone ten hundred years I would still hate him as much as that first day, perhaps even more, as time has only allowed my anger to grow stronger and deadlier. In these ten years, I could have witnessed my most-precious Iphigenia grow from a child into a woman. Ten years is nothing. I can wait, and have waited patiently; allowing grief to become cold, merciless, unforgiving hatred and now to allow that hate to grow into a murderous rage. I will have his blood, as I vowed that day. He is a fool for thinking otherwise.  
  
Chances are he thinks nothing of it, contrary to my musings. He has most likely forgotten of my loss at his wish to play soldiers and kill innocents for the principle of returning my harlot sister. He never understood my love for my dearest child and can never touch upon it. He seems to have given no thought to how her death would affect me - it would not be out of his character, for he is not a man that thinks of those other than himself. He is unmoved by the loss of a daughter so why should I be any different? Monstrous oaf. Bastard of Midas! I curse his ancestors!  
  
My blood boils at the mere thought and my right hand balls into an angry clenched fist, blindly wishing for a sword to appear in it. The Fates allowed him to live ten years too many. Had I reached him in time I would have killed him there and then without remorse or a second thought. There is no second thought needed.  
  
Forever I have detested him, his leer and his twisted smile creeping up one half of his face. He is considered handsome by most but I see a shallow, cruel, narrow-minded, child-murdering fiend. A monster to rival the great Hydra and a fool to rival Midas and filled to the brim with the cruelty of the Gods. I was told I should be happy having won a husband such as he but from the moment his lips parted and his overly velvety voice spoke meaningless words of conventional praise to me, I disliked him. I knew I could never love him. Not one such as he, one who only loves himself. And in his company my dislike quickly swarmed fervently together and evolved into cold hatred. He is too much of every quality I detest - too shallow, too insensitive, too cold, too overbearing, too bad-tempered, too irritable, too narcissistic, too smug, too self-righteous, too condescending, too selfish, too unloving.how I detested him then. How I desire to disembowel him now, to spill his lifeblood and hear him scream and wail like a child, begging for mercy. Or perhaps I should set a flame to him, to alight him and anoint him in fire in homage to Hestia; Goddess of Home and Hearth, for the home he destroyed and the hearth forever dimmed to less than an ember of affection in our family. Or perhaps I should only stun him and bury alive him under Demeter's generous soil to eternally suffer a mother's wrath. Or even I should suffer his bloodied and battered body enough carnage to make Ares proud of my punishment of this parody of a hero. Perhaps I should even let him be hunted down, like the animal he is, to honour Artemis; she who he gave my sweet child to upon a blood-stained altar.  
  
How I wished in my youth that I would not be wed to a man such as he but forced I was, into the bonds and bed of marriage to Agamemnon, the boorish selfish excuse of a man. How my distaste for men has grown! I remember vividly the cold, clammy whisper of dread that would slowly grow into a scream of horror in my deepest heart as I lay waiting in our marriage bed for him to take his pleasures of my body. I still feel sickened by the memory of his rough hands on my skin and his hot breath on my lips, the sounds of his breathless grunting, his dog-like panting as he neared his peak inside my violated body, the aching of his passionless thrusts, the repulsive sight of my triumphant, self-satisfied gleam in his eyes as he took my virtue and dignity with his pleasure. I remember how I would lie still and silent, taut as a bowstring in his most intimate embrace biting down a moan of annoyance. I may as well have been in the next room, had it not been the intensity of my emotion, with each thrust my anger grew. I shudder; sometimes it feels as though he is never gone. But I do not feel fear no more, only rage. Pure, burning anger at the husband that took my liberties and everything else that mattered to him. He invoked such anger just as much in the glare of the sun, as his mere presence irritated me and each of his views on myself, women, and others he mentioned made my hand ache to strike his leering smile and spit in those shallow eyes.  
  
How I wish I could cry! But I have never succumbed to the tearing of my heart, never felt the fresh and hot tears of salt release themselves from their icy prison in my eyes. Could I cry, the tears would burn deep black furrows down my cheeks with their bitter poison; my sorrows would fill he heavens of Olympus with a mournful flood of crimes and hate and it would drown the earth in a divine rain of tears. This deluge would only be a pinprick of the tempest behind my cold eyes.  
  
But I have never cried. Tears are alien, foreign on my olive-skinned face, not from a happy, joyful life of beauty and laughter but from an old habit of biting down my feelings. Repress. Become transit. Do not let anything show that it has struck under, to the core of your heart. Tears will degrade you, anger is a fiery sword. Turn your heart into stone and nothing can harm you. And so, I became dead to the world, forever an outcast in the realm of Aphrodite, cursed to wander aimlessly in my mind in search of apathy; my much-coveted treasure. I killed myself by piercing my heart with that same sword of flame.  
  
But I still cried. Only once, but enough.  
  
My daughter melted my dead heart, it must have been deemed fitting by the Gods that the grief at her loss should rip my heart, soul, spirit and world asunder. So strange it seems that it was my repulsive husband that sired my darling daughter within me with his seed and yet it is she that gave my sombre world life and sunshine. Yet by taking my sunshine from me corrected that oversight, I suppose. My hands ball into tight, trembling fists as I crave to wash these strong hands in his blood. My heart bleeds still, each movement makes my bones ache with the frailty of an ancient woman. Each attempt to heal only drives the unseen spear deeper still, twisting it cruelly. Perhaps my heart was truly torn out, the blooded cords ripped free and all I feel in my bosom is its ghost, gone but still stabbing me sharply, not there but still tangible. Haunting me. I weeped enough to put sorrow itself to shame, to stir pity in its grieving soul. And my world turned grey and faded metallic blue for the rest of my days with violent storm clouds, always raining hard, merciless arrows from the heavens, but never striking the ground with deadly lightning. The sun was struck out and never shone again.  
  
I torment myself with sweet memories - memories of my beautiful, golden daughter gleaming with the promise of greater beauty of mother Leda and half-sister Helen. Nay, it is Electra that has my looks but Iphigenia posses all the statuesque beauty of a young Aphrodite. Her flaxen hair spun from the threads of sunshine itself, her warm eyes the colour of richest, most fertile soil, gleaming with a sharp sparkle familiar to my own eyes. Hers were kindly, all-seeing, understanding, lit up with joy and dancing. Her shy smile; two dewy ripe petals curling upwards, lighting up my entire life with the smallest but sincerest gesture. Her childish form, like a young sprite. Dancing up to me. Sprinting off to play in an imaginary game with phantom friends. Sitting quietly. Learning how to weave. Looking out of her window as still as the sorrow-less figures on a painted vase just to see the sun set. singing to herself. kissing me on the forehead. Laughing. Lying in my arms. Her hair smelling of heavy lavender. Lazily curling my dark locks between her nimble fingers. Her giggles as I adorned her hair with flowers. Her childish, innocent humour. Her sincerity. Her quietly wise and simplistic view of that dark mundane world, bent on ending itself, as though a flower and real love and affection could solve all problems. How she slept, silent and innocent, a gem in herself. Something I would sooner die for than part with.  
  
The dagger in my heart twists again. Iphigenia!  
  
The day is painted as vividly in my mind as though I were there, ten years ago, one more time. I relive it and my heart becomes further distanced from what is left of me. The day the light was put out and the heavens died in rage. The citizens of our city curse Demeter's grief at the loss of her Persephone but I alone understand her ceaseless mourning and longing. Each winter and famine reflects the cold, fruitless life I am condemned to without my child. My Iphigenia. My other young cannot touch upon her, they lack her gentle aura, her love. They are humans, not innocents. I cannot love them, they are like the flawed beings that took my Iphigenia from me. I remember the day.  
  
Images stand out. The chipped vase I pretend to adore for Aragmemnon. It smells of settled dust and unnerves my nose. I felt like a tight coil of anxiety, with the very thought of war. Firstly, Helen shamed herself and acted in the polar opposite way to her nature by running away with a guest of all people and brought disgrace to us all. My mind was plagued - how could she do such a thing? Helen, of all people! So unnatural of her to not have her wits about her and be ruled by fierce integrity. For all her beauty, carnal passion never seemed to allure her as it did me (perhaps Menelaus is the more talented of the two brothers in many aspects, it seems) and no harlot; a faithful and devoted wife if I ever saw one. Nay, it is I, Clytemnestra, who inherited all the wickedly female qualities of Pandora, not she - daughter of Almighty Zeus. And what of Hermione? How could my wretched sister do such a thing? To abandon one's daughter like that.  
  
And thinking of her, I feel not the conflict of my past love for my sweet half-sister but a coldness, a dead void where feelings should be. Because of her lack of control over her passions I lost my Iphigenia. She abandoned her daughter and cost me my own. I hate her almost as much as I do Agamemnon, though I have no wish to end her life. Still, her selfishness cost me everything that I cared for in life. Sister or not, I cannot forgive her. The blood tie between Iphigenia and I that she aided to destroy is stronger than my ties of family to her. She had the better husband though, I am sure. Then again, if Menelaus is only half the pitiful husband Agamemnon is then I cannot judge her - I can only wonder why she never did it sooner. My pride, my throne and Iphigenia kept me at Agamemnon's side, but clearly my half-sister does not share these values. But it is I who lost my daughter, and she gave up her own as though it was nothing! How I hate Helen at times. And how I miss my charming little girl.  
  
But I knew nothing of that then, and was only troubled by the enigma surrounding the shameful affair. And how Menelaus refused to take a more faithful woman as his wife in my half-sister's place but wishes to reclaim his Helen. And Agamemnon wished to aid his brother for the honour of Sparta. A plague upon him! He enjoys war and the glory and the woman he will claim. Perhaps even the gore of soldiers amuses him. I was at my wits' end with worry over the war and its consequences. Food, men, the possibility of failure.it felt as though my shoulders bore all the weight of Atlas' terrible burden. War is not a game. And it caused me such concern, followed by frustration when my boar husband simply smiled at me with proud pity - proud of his own knowledge and pitying my own seemingly minute intellect - when I questioned him about his actions. He simply told me I would not understand the art of war, for I was a mere woman, before reassuring me that no harm would befall him and he would soon return to me, our palace and our bed, once Helen had some sense beaten into her. And I smiled and pushed the urge to cut his throat with the sharp edge of his beloved vase. Perhaps he will smell the dust then.  
  
Despite several animal sacrifices to Goddess Artemis, still the wind was forever against them, without hope of relenting without the correct victim. I remember the royal pig of a hero and warrior absently telling me of the chosen sacrifice being a certain young maiden, but no more. I suspected nothing and was ignorant in our palace whilst somewhere, a terrified girl was slaughtered like an animal for the sake of war and the pride of two brothers. My terrified little girl. Sometimes I see her there in my mind's eye - trembling, warm earthly eyes watering with fear and horror, sick at the smell of blood and priests, begging her father and crying out to her mother to save her. But I was not there. Agamemnon saw to that, made sure I would no know until it was too late.  
  
Had I known I would have flung myself on that altar, flailing, screaming and unstoppable like a wild woman, willing to give my life for the sake of sparing my precious eldest daughter. Nay, I would sooner have robbed the nearest soldier of his sword and slain Agamemnon, the priests, fellow soldiers.all who tried to lay a finger upon my fair child. I would have gladly spilt their bitter blood to save my Iphigenia from such brutes. I would gladly quarter, skewer, stab and decapitate any that wished to harm my child, without a second thought.  
  
But I was not given that dignity, I was deprived of the chance to act as a mother would, through Agamemnon and my own blindness. I would gladly strike out my eyes as Oedipus with one of my glittering bejewelled brooches to punish myself for my ignorance and inability to save my precious sunshine. But no, I need my eyes to be able to avenge Iphigenia, to see the look of realisation in his insipid eyes before I struck and mutilated the body I loathe so very much. But my greatest sorrow, the wound that time and vengeance will not heal, is the knowledge that is truth it is naught, for it will not return my daughter to my motherly embrace. Never again will I hear her laugh, smell her hair, feel her warm fragile form resting in my arms or see her to make new memories, untainted by hate and grief. I will forever be haunted by her loss. My grief, hate, madness, and rage will never die, not even with my dread husband. It is forever a part of me. But this knowledge will not still my hand from the passion of frenzied murder - Agamemnon will die at my hand. He has been asking for a knife through his black heart since I first married him and now he will receive his dues.  
  
My heartbreak and fury would have put Demeter's mournful famine, Poseidon's greatest sea-tempest and all Zeus' raging thunderstorms to shame. The heavens would cry with me, if they only knew how my soul was shattered that day. I only remember it in images, moving slowly, silently, the radiant colours merging at the edges in a grotesque parody of brightness. However, there was no colour that day. All colours vanished and have remained dead in my barren world, dwelling with Iphigenia and Demeter's Persephone in the dark Underworld. I remember my one terrible hoarse cry escaping disbelieving lips, stabbing the silent air like the dagger that slew my child, a cry thick with the burden of heartbreak and unshed tears. My loss quickly burned brighter and deadlier with all-consuming heat until it became an unstoppable bonfire within my heart, vowing to kill my fiendish husband. My anger helped me bury my grief. I had all the strength of the Furies; I carry it still.  
  
I stilled my trembling body, forgot my pained breast and screamed a war- cry, forcing down the tears that burned my eyes as I charged, snatching a sword from the nearest royal guard and racing, murderous hatred burning in my heart, drowning all senses but my heart's terrible aching. I raced down towards the docks to reach the monster that stole my beautiful child and butchered her, my eyes a storm of a thousand terrible deaths I wished to befall him by my vengeful hand. Had I reached him, I would have killed him that day. I would have killed him, stabbed him again and again till there was nothing of him remaining, bathed in his blood, spat on his filthy corpse and danced on his grave. I was propelled by a harpy's righteousness, all the power of the Furies running through my veins, flowing in a powerful, terrible deluge, destroying all. The red mist became my tool and in my eyes the war between Gods and Titans was retold in crimson blood and flame. I would have killed him. I would have killed Agamemnon. I would have killed him. Iphigenia.  
  
But no, his ships were swiftly sailing towards Troy, for Agamemnon to win glory, riches, land, mistresses, camp followers and slave-girls. I screeched my agony to the Gods as they allowed him to live. They allowed that demon to escape my sword! They allowed him to slip free from the stranglehold! Still, I jumped into the warm, gentle waters and waded, vowing to catch him and end him in agony. Citizens whispered of insanity, overly dramatic grief and possession as they witnessed my chase. Strong arms seized me, pulling me back from my dark advance, hollow, uncomforting words fell heavily on my prone ears as I was dragged to shore by well- meaning strangers, howling like a caged monster. Some were injured in my struggles against them, their blood fell like rain on the dusty ground in place of Agamemnon's. Were I not dead on the inside I would feel pity for the well intending I harmed and guilt over their wounds. But I am sunken and undone; as empty and hollow as any sympathetic words. I am dead inside. Even Iphigenia is dead inside me. All I have is hate, the corrosive stain of grief, fury, murderous desires, bitterness and a lust for revenge. For my dead child.  
  
I stilled myself after my rage at the gathering crowd and then my heart froze and became cold and calculating, every day its shell hardens more with bitter hate, killing at all other natural emotions. I am solitary, having aged far more in that one day than it is possible for any mortal to do so and live, a bridge forever burnt beyond ever hoping to rebuild between myself and any other I know, even my other children, the chasm deep and painful. And void.  
  
I was still, walking tall and proud to my palace, my mind racing ahead. Plotting on biding my time, to avenge sweet Iphigenia when the pig I dread to call husband returns. I can wait. I vowed to spill his blood. My revenge would be all the sweeter when I eventually kill him. I became as stone and stalked into my equally loved and hated home, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. I would have his life. I WILL have his life. Ten years is nothing; I have not forgotten. I will never forget.  
  
Alone in my house, I became overwhelmed by memories of my precious daughter, now gone, forever lost to me. Fury found its hand once more. Agamemnon's prize vase met with one exquisitely carved marble pillar, shattering into a thousand pieces, propelled by all my strength. Everything in room was destroyed - I gave mercy to nothing. All objects met doom as I screamed, releasing hot angry tears, burning away my face with the passion behind them. With nothing more to destroy, I sank to my knees and cried, ugly, reddening tears, my only sound a dry hoarse croak at the back of my throat. I had truly lost Iphigenia and for the first and last time in my life I cried, and I cried tears powerful enough to flood the heavens and cloud the Gods with dark depressions.  
  
It was Aegisthus who had found himself courageous enough to tell me the news of my beloved Iphigenia's fate when I questioned her whereabouts. This was an act of bravery, for my love for my slain child was so great and my reaction of such violent passion. I have since heard rumours that all servants, Agamemnon's, Iphigenia's and my own handmaids kept the truth from me, fearing I would harm them in irrational womanly grief. But there was only one I desired do bring harm to. Aegisthus was safe and forever won a whisper of trust and perhaps a ghost of affection, mingled with the secret stirring of lust I felt for him since he first entered my home.  
  
Some whisper spitefully, full of gossip, saying he held me whilst I wept my bitter sorrows into the comforting material of his garment that terrible day. He did not. He found but simply stood, a gentle presence devoid of any forcefulness or falseness. He allowed me my tears, though somewhat damaged and pained to see my sorrows. Oh, I knew of his desire oh me - I noticed him watching me and Iphigenia playing as mother and daughter do, looking enchanted as though I were Aphrodite herself. He watched me wail, sensing if he cried to give a word or touch of comfort I would break from my reverie of despair and claw at his eyes. He allowed my tears and made sure I did not cause myself harm, although that is not a thing I would do. Not without revenge.  
  
And so, my eyes dried up for the rest of my days, those violent tears nothing more than shadows and dust - forgotten. I returned to my rooms, how long I remained there I do not know. Many days crept by in those luxurious, well furnished but pitiless rooms, I kept to myself, stoic and heartless, without the will to move, only haunting dreams of revenge keeping life in my body. I let myself become obsessed with that one desire. And I am proud, for I am alive and healthy today and Agamemnon returns to seal his fate at my blooded hands.  
  
Such was my life, mourning Iphigenia, struggling not to let my apathy for my three living children become cruelly obvious, and entertaining myself with the promise of revenge and how exactly I should kill my boorish husband. And Aegisthus.  
  
The carnal pleasure we shared is no secret. Though he has declared his love for me in many a heated moment of intimacy, I do not return his feelings. Nor am I even capable of hosting such strong, alive, ripe feelings in my dead bosom. I do pity him for his sincerity and his open love, I almost wish at times I could revive my emotions as he is a charming and kind young man, deserving of more. But I do not love him. At times I do not even desire him. But I do need him, or what he does to me.  
  
It was five years of more intimate meetings and close communication that ignited my lust and soon it became a funeral pyre in my aching lips, bosom, arms and loins.. Five years and we shared our first carnal encounter. In the stark, hash light of day we were alone in the small room adjunct to the main hall, when I could not resist his youthful appeal, his loving gaze, my body's screams to him from beneath my rich terracotta garments. I pulled him towards me, crushing his body to my own, kissing him roughly, passionately and mercilessly until he responded with a fire to match my own. It was a rough, hasty and awkward ecstasy. We lost ourselves in each other, exploring each other's bodies with eager, greedy hands as my made love furiously on the cold stone floor in sweat, tears, cuts and clothes, each joint, each sinew aching with lust and satisfaction. How I hungered for his touch, his caress and his grope equally with firm passion. What it was about Aegisthus and a rough, quick encounter against a wall and a floor, still almost fully clothed and watched by the curious eyes of lifeless statues I found so tantalising I do not know. But, I remember, once the throes of ecstasy had died, lying there in a most intimate embrace, gazing at muted sea-green eyes and hair the shade of burnt gold, still inside me, his clothes grazing and digging into my inner thigh how I would never again settle for less than that.  
  
Our torrid affair continued, and I drowned myself in him. In an unearthly pleasurable embrace with him, my sorrows died for a moment, forgotten in the heat of the moment. When we shared our carnal love, I felt alive, I felt like flesh and bone. We take possession of one another, frenzied with dark and burning desire and slowly, loving, full of gentle caresses. But it is still possession. Possession of the flesh, though I hold his heart in my hand. With Aegisthus I feel alive once more, warm and beautiful; I have feelings again and can feel as all women do. Heat claimed me and all that existed was flesh meeting and battling wildly in a fiercely ecstatic war for dominance and that was my world, allowing no thoughts of Iphigenia or Agamemnon to pollute these pure encounters. There was only room for turbulent, powerful passion without consequence as beads of sweat replaced tears of grief. It became a necessity to my life, to lose myself in my lover, to forget all.  
  
Of course, there was my husband to think of and his foolish pride. We indulged our illicit treachery in every room in the palace, even the wide, proud gardens. Not one wall did not hear our cries of pleasure. Each encounter damaged Agamemnon's pride and manhood more and more and we both revelled in it. How we would laugh cruelly as Aegisthus took me in my husband's chambers, both of us laughing, sighing and screaming and knowing we mocked the boar even further. And I learnt that I had gained more than a lover, but an ally. One who would gladly help me kill my husband. He is a lover, companion, ally and perhaps friend and he gives me further reason to have my husband dead upon his return. With Agamemnon dead, I think I will marry my Aegisthus. My dispels my misery for a moment and brings me passion and lust - perhaps it is not what is required for a marriage but it is enough. It is all I have in this world.  
  
And thus it continued, both of us needing each other more after each encounter. Me for the forgetfulness it offered, as full of oblivion as the white poppies of Lethe could offer. And my sweet paramour needed our shared pleasures so he could love me one way or another and be fully and truly loved back.  
  
Why he loves me so eludes me. At first I suspected a manipulative desire for the throne but it is not desire for that which consumed his heart but desire for me alone, without being adorned by my golden crown. Had he only wished to seduce me I could have controlled myself but he carries the torch of love for me in his heart and that is a far more dangerous thing. It is far easier to give into that. He loves me, Clytemnestra of Sparta.  
  
I examine my face and form a mirror; I see a tall woman, taller than what is deemed beautiful by men, her form slender and supple but also strong and proud. The strength and curves of my body is hidden beneath a smooth gown of deepest moss green, adorned by intricate jewels. Strength must be unbecoming on a woman, especially next to the fragile looks of Helen. My hair cascades in velvet waves down to my waist, adorned by golden bejewelled wire and a shade of a deep, dark earthly brown, rich and more thick and wavy than lustrous. My skin, so soft in some areas is a darkened olive, bronzed by the heat of summer's glory, my face made old by lines of sorrow. My lush, mature lips have not seen a smile for ten years. My features, too sharp for many a man's liking have inspired a look of cruelty since my heart died with my daughter. My eyes, once warm and glowing with the light of love are now prisons of ice. They rage a tempest of blue and grey, with sharp silver and violet flecks like a forked lightening running through the storm of my eyes. They betray too many thoughts than should be behind a woman's eyes. I am still beautiful, but only a ghostly shadow of the lovely, warm being I once was. The stamp of hurt, hate, coldness, bitterness and unmistakable cruelty is obvious, never wholly free of the moment I learnt of Iphigenia's fate. On the inside, I am little more than the hollow shell that gazes back at me through the glass - how can a sweet, naïve man such as Aegisthus love such a woman? Perhaps because he does without reservation or falsehood or explanation is part of why I need him so. Part of why I feel the small twinge of guilt for being unable to return such unique feelings.  
  
But now my long wait is over. Ten years is nothing. The conquering hero has returned and all of Greece celebrates, whilst I celebrate with quiet satisfaction that at last the day I so longed for has arrived. The day he dies by my hand. The day Iphigenia is avenged. A twisted grin begins to creep up my lips.  
  
I enter the main hall of the palace where the servants prepare a great banquet for their lord's long-awaited return, and I supervise the painstaking preparations. Not that he will offer a single word of gratitude. But his gratitude is not warranted this time, as I plan to do something most unbecoming of a woman to him after the feast and celebrations. It is almost time, I can hear the parade in the streets as the army returns. I aid the servants in the finishing touches, insisting that everything must be perfect, with great laughter visiting me for the first time, if only in my mind. I catch a glimpse of Aegisthus and exchange a knowing look. Tonight. I cannot help but let a whisper of a smile touch my lips as I gaze at him reassuringly. He notices, the poor, love-struck man. I hope I will never hurt him in love.  
  
All the palace hierarchy, including Aegisthus and myself assemble at the outside of the palace, at the highest point of our great, limestone steps. Any moment now, I will catch the first sight of Agamemnon as he climbs these steps after ten long years. They arrive - soldiers, honoured guests, slaves, concubines and of course, the heroes of war. I catch sight of Menelaus; ten years has hardly touched him, he is taller, his face slightly more lined, his eyes dimmed and shoulders beginning to slouch but he almost seems as young as he once was. As does Helen. My harlot half-sister, paramour to Prince Paris of Troy, daughter of Zeus Almighty. Ten years has not lessened her ethereal beauty, only added to it. Still, her golden looks of the divine fall on blind eyes. Her empty loveliness does not touch me, all I feel is the cold stab of bitterness rage through me as I see her, happy once more in the arms of the husband she left. Her eyes are full of pitiful sadness, she knows of my Iphigenia's death. I know that look, the look of a teary-eyed child, the one that could make anyone forgive her just by pouting and letting tears well up in her eyes. That look ruled me as a young girl, but no more she does not touch me. Iphigenia is gone.  
  
Helen cannot contain a gasp as her rich, deep blue eyes fall on my face. Evidently ten years has done far more damage to me. No, it not my ageing that shocks her, but the face she sees. A face without love or laughter, with sharp eyes casting a predatory gaze through the crowd, gazing at her with a cold, unforgiving hate. I must seem a stranger to her. I care not.  
  
At last, I see him and my heart skips its beat for a brief moment. Agamemnon. Walking tall with smug, condescending pride and self- righteousness. He has gained weight over the years. I do not miss the girl at his side, clothed in scarlet and what she means. I had heard rumours that my husband had taken a slave girl, Cassandra, Princess of Troy as his concubine. They say she can see through the threads of time, into the future. I wonder if she knows of her master's fate? I look at her in sheer disgust, paraded like a prize for all to see. Beautiful she is, with long sleek hair as dark as midnight, a sweet face, adorned with the smoothest skin, a form to tempt any man and eyes of grey and silver. My brow furrows as I examine her eyes, they seem as cold and dead with despair as mine, but so very haunted by something I cannot explain. I feel my heart tighten with momentary pity but I still myself. I have not planned for ten years to falter now. She is a lovely prize and has won my disgusting husband glory with her darkly lovely looks. He may take her as a second wife. This means I must kill her too.  
  
At my morbid turn of thoughts, she raises her head in alarm, directly meeting my eyes with her deep, haunted gaze. It unnerves me. She knows. She continues ascending the steps behind Agamemnon, her eyes not leaving mine for a moment. I gaze at her coldly, without a trace of fear. But she still knows. She knows. Why does she not do anything? Why does she show no fear, only sad acceptance, and even relief? Those dark eyes haunt me with their heavy knowledge. She knows.  
  
For a brief moment, I see my reflection in her muted grey eyes, I see myself in the future, standing above my terrified husband, eyes glittering with hate, fury and pleasure. I hear his spluttered begging, see his humiliation, naked in his bath, about to be murdered by his wife. He is bewildered. Then realisation hits and he begins to force out rushed apologies and beg for his life. I revel in his degradation and strike. His cries are muffled but to me they are as clear as golden bells and like music to my ears. I strike again and again, roughly driving my sword home a haunting smile making my face as lovely and terrible as the storm in my eyes. With one final, powerful thrust it is over in blood and fear. The coppery stench fills my nose and I am at peace. Iphigenia is avenged. I see a single tear escape my eye as I drop my sword and gaze to the heavens, arms outstretched in thanks, and longing for my slain daughter a bitter sob caught in my throat at my happiness as I am filled with a wave of calming peace and serenity. It is over. I have avenged Iphigenia. His blood adorns my wine-red gown and I am washed in a cleansing catharsis, it is like bathing in warm, molten gold. Joy fills me completely and I grasp happiness once more. This is heavenly, a heavenly deluge of joy and satisfaction and sweetness. Ten years truly is nothing.  
  
I leave Cassandra's prophetic gaze and feel a warm feeling gently fill me. She knows and so do I. I nod at her, a simple gesture but I feel the irrational need for it; killing her will be so difficult. I already feel conflict build, but I know it is the only way to secure Aegisthus and myself.  
  
However, I know the price of my victory and my total revenge. That is why Cassandra does nothing. I sense my own impending death in her eyes, the price of Agamemnon's filthy blood. I will die soon. I know not how but I feel it, the murder of my husband demands penance and the penance will be my own life. I care not. Perhaps Agamemnon's guards will slaughter me. Perhaps the public will form a mob and rip me limb from limb. Perhaps Aegisthus will turn on me and take my life. Perhaps enemies of Sparta will poison me. Perhaps friends of my husband will avenge him. Perhaps the Furies will hunt me till justice is served. Perhaps Harpies will torment me before carrying me off to the Underworld. Perhaps one of the Gods themselves will smite me for my crime. I care not. All I feel is a strange satisfaction. It brings me a dizzying happiness. I almost allow a dreamy smile to break my cold countenance. I care not about my death, as long as I avenge my murdered daughter I am satisfied. It is enough.  
  
Agamemnon reaches me and my eyes sparkle with malicious intent. How I hate him. How sweet his death will be. I offer him my hand and he kisses it. I am cold enough to contain my shudder of revulsion. I put on a seductive, charming appearance, and he mistakes the smoulder in my eyes for lust, rather than murderous desires and rage. He leers at me smugly. He thinks ten years was well enough.  
  
"My Lord." I greet him with quiet desire behind my words. He is filled with pride at my supposed surrender to his superiority. He has been playing at war far too much; he has forgotten real humans.  
  
"Wife." He purrs, leering at me pitifully. I sense his turn of thoughts - he pities me because now he has Cassandra for his physical desires. The urge to slap the knowing smile off his chiselled face is almost overpowering but I let none of it show on my icy waxen mask of a face.  
  
I lead him into the main, smiling falsely, exchanging a secret look of understanding with Aegisthus. I will kill Agamemnon. I notice my husband seems pleased at what I have had prepared for him. I turn to him and smile with welcome, though my smile does not even touch my eyes. My slightly jagged, cruel look disguised as a rich, beauteous smile dazzles my ignorant husband and Cassandra gazes on with quiet sorrow. I feel the great, heavenly deluge of my tears over Iphigenia and hate towards my pig husband build; I know it is powerful enough to destroy all I know but I care not. Not any more. I hate him. I will avenge Iphigenia's death at long last. Let all drown in it, as long as Agamemnon dies. I accept the terms and the price I must pay. I am satisfied. Iphigenia . . .  
  
I flash my most stunning smile at my husband.  
  
"Welcome!" I proclaim proudly "Enjoy the feast!"  
  
And I hope it chokes you.  
  
*THE END* 


End file.
